


Birthday Blues

by Andata



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Healing, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23734243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andata/pseuds/Andata
Summary: "When Hank wakes up on his fifty-eighth birthday, something feels off."A story about Hank, his husband, and a birthday.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 91





	Birthday Blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deuxjolras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuxjolras/gifts).



> The second of my two DBH oneshots!
> 
> This one was written specifically as a birthday gift for [deuxjolras](/users/deuxjolras/) last year. They're one of my oldest and dearest friends, a fellow Hankcon enthusiast (and beta of this fanfic - after receiving it, of course), an amazing writer and an all-around lovely person. Go check out their stuff!

When Hank wakes up on his fifty-eighth birthday, something feels off.

It takes a moment for his sleep-laden mind to catch up and realize what it is: He’s alone. After several years of being woken up by a surprisingly compact android who has apparently decided to pursue a career as a blanket, it feels weird. Weirder than weird. There are no alarm bells ringing in his head, not yet, but the sense of wrongness drives Hank into action.

With a heavy sigh, he heaves his aching body off the bed and, almost slipping on a stray sock, leaves the room to look for Connor.

\---

He finds him sitting at the kitchen table, just as naked as himself. Even with his back mostly turned to him, Hank can easily see his LED rapidly flickering between red and yellow. He doesn’t look up when Hank enters the room. In fact, he’s so still that it would be unsettling if he were human, but all Hank feels is a pang of worry. Wordlessly, he turns on the coffee machine and waits while its inner workings and the coffee beans being ground cut through the heavy silence.

When Hank places a mug in front of Connor a few minutes later, he still hasn’t moved a bit, but his LED has settled on a solid yellow. In the time it takes for Hank to move to the other side of the table with his own coffee and sit down, Connor’s mug appears to have moved into his grip as if by magic, the steam rising directly into his face. Hank sips on his own coffee. Grimaces. Adds another spoon of sugar. Stirs. Trains his eyes on Connor and waits.

\---

Hank’s mug is long since empty by the time Connor finally looks up and silently reaches out with his left hand, the right still firmly placed on his cup of coffee. It must still be lukewarm, still a source of comfort. A ray of sunlight is reflected off the golden band on his ring finger and Hank has to blink to shake off the brief disorientation caused by that. Smiling gently, he places his right hand over Connor’s left, idly stroking the warm, smooth plastic between his first and second knuckle. He is not prepared for the wave of relief that hits him when Connor smiles back, alleviating some of the tension that he hadn’t noticed before.

“Good morning, Hank,” he says, “If you’re done with your coffee you should get dressed, I’d like to get going before noon. According to the forecast, it’s going to be very hot today.”

“It was already very hot last night,” Hank says with a grin, waggling his eyebrows at the same time.

This makes Connor roll his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, the slight uptick of his mouth betraying his true feelings.

“And anyway,” Hank continues, “can’t an old man enjoy his coffee and hold his gorgeous husband’s hand for a bit? On his own birthday?”

At that, Connor’s face moves in a way that is clearly supposed to be an eyebrow raise. Unfortunately, it doesn’t quite have the intended effect without the actual eyebrows. “If you think you’re old, I’d like to remind you of how much you came down my throat last night. Twice.”

Hank doesn’t need a mirror to know that he’s gone red up to the tips of his ears. The embarrassment doesn’t stop his traitorous dick from giving an interested twitch, though, especially when Connor starts rubbing his leg against Hank’s under the table. Still, that’s the end of this discussion. Connor doesn’t comment on the fact that Hank’s mug is already empty and simply lets the moment last for a little while longer. He also doesn’t mention the weirdness from earlier. Hank knows better than to pry. Connor will tell him when he’s ready.

With one last squeeze, Hank lets go of Connor’s hand, gets up, and starts heading in the direction of the shower, but not before pressing a firm kiss to Connor’s LED, which is now a steady blue.

Then he leans down a bit further and whispers an invitation into the perfect shell of his ear before continuing on his way as if nothing’s happened. The sound of a chair scraping against the stone tiles of the floor is all the warning he gets before his waist is encircled by strong arms and a hot, wet mouth is pressed against the back of his neck. Hank grins. It’s gonna be a while before they make it to the shower.

\---

They manage to leave their apartment in the early afternoon and spend the day strolling through the town, cobblestone streets and whitewashed buildings feeling not quite real under the relentless sun, the smell of the sea and blooming flowers heavy in the air. Connor doesn’t let go of Hank’s hand, no matter how gross and sweaty it gets. He probably likes it even more that way, the little weirdo, Hank thinks fondly.

Connor insists on buying Hank a straw hat to protect his head from the sun and they end up leaving the store with two identical ones, the second one placed firmly upon Connor’s own head. Connor’s already beautiful eyes end up looking impossibly lovelier when contrasted with the light blue ribbon tied around its rim. Looking at the dimples his wide grin brings out on his freckled face and the few strands of gray that Connor insists upon adding to his hair, Hank suddenly feels so painfully overwhelmed by love that he can’t do anything but pull Connor against himself and hold him tight.

In a way, this feels like their very first hug all the way back in the icy and bright morning after the revolution, when Hank had to somehow show how terribly relieved he was, but had no inkling of just how deeply his and Connor’s lives would become intertwined. Now, Connor’s form is so familiar against his own that he can’t fathom ever not having known it.

Both of their hats get knocked off by the force of the hug and Connor ends up having to chase them through the narrow streets after they get picked up by a sudden breeze. Hank considers trying to keep up with him, but gets over that stupid notion very quickly. Instead, he sits down on a sun-warmed wooden bench, closes his eyes against the afternoon light that gives him a mild headache even with his sunglasses, and waits for Connor to come back.

\---

In the evening, after Hank has indulged in so many varieties of locally caught fish that he feels like the entire ocean has moved to his stomach, Connor seems distant again. Knowing him and his turbulent emotional landscape, Hank suspects that this morning’s events have finally resurfaced.

With that in mind, Hank steers them to a relatively empty part of the nearby beach where they sit side by side on a wall, not touching for the first time in many hours. Their new hats are safely placed at their sides. The sunset paints everything in soft and warm tones, which makes Connor’s further withdrawal even more obvious. Hank keeps his eyes on the ocean and waits.

It’s dark by the time Hank feels Connor shuffling closer and the weight of his head on his left shoulder. He doesn’t comment on the wetness he feels seeping into his shirt.

“Wanna tell me what’s up, Con?” he says, his nose and mouth pressed into his husband’s soft hair.

Connor replies after several seconds, a disturbingly long time for him. “I dreamed of roses.”

It takes a moment for Hank’s brain to make the connection, but when it does it’s all he needs to fully turn towards Connor and press him against his chest, ignoring his protesting muscles.

In turn, Connor puts his arms around his waist, squeezes him a bit too tightly and continues, not bothering to muffle his voice: “They were everywhere, constantly moving, holding me in place, tearing at my limbs. It hurt so much, Hank. And the smell... I was so scared.”

It’s not the first time Connor has told him about this particular nightmare. Still, it never fails to constrict Hank’s throat, as if those very same roses were squeezing it, too.

Hank vividly remembers the first time it had happened, can still see Connor’s unchanging red LED and anger at himself for being scared of such an obvious image when he shouldn’t be scared of anything. This had sent Hank, who had still not even begun dealing with his own demons, much less those of someone who had just begun settling into his newly discovered personhood, into a panic. Hank doesn’t like thinking about that day.

Now, though – now Connor’s LED is yellow and Hank knows that all he can do is be there. So he simply holds Connor and presses soft kisses to his shiny bald head. He still has to actively push down the panic that threatens to rise with the helplessness he feels – a few years is not a long time in the face of trauma and he knows that better than anyone. He knew it back then, too but now he can think and say it.

It’s something.

After a while, Connor disentangles himself from Hank. He has reapplied his hair and skin, the way he prefers in public. He’s not looking at Hank and when he opens his mouth, Hank knows that Connor is about to apologize for ruining his birthday or something, because that’s Connor, always feeling guilty and responsible. Then, he suddenly looks Hank straight in the eye and utters a simple “Thank you.”

Huh. That’s something, too.

Hank feels himself smile again: “Thank you, too. For this trip I mean. Fuck, if anyone told me five years ago that this is how I would spend this birthday, I’d have never believed them, but it’s perfect. This was definitely one of your better ideas, Con.”

He absolutely deserves the playful shove he gets for that.

\---

In the darkness of their bedroom, with Connor gently resting on top of him again, legs tangled and bodies sweaty and not minding it a bit, Hank reflects on his life and how it led him to this exact moment. He can’t say he doesn’t have any regrets and he probably never will, but he’s content.

No, more than that, he’s well and truly happy. He actually wants to be there and see what the future holds, with Connor by his side. And that’s definitely something.

With that thought, accompanied by his husband’s surprisingly heavy but comforting weight and the gentle, barely perceptible hum of his fans, Hank drifts off into a restful sleep.


End file.
